Now it was Jewel’s turn to probe for answers. Late that night after the banquet was over and the sounds of rattling crockery issued from the scullery, indicating that the zealous brownie was already at work, the human members of the household were preparing for sleep. Jewel entered Asrăthiel’s bedchamber carrying a lighted lamp, which she placed on the dressing table. Asrăthiel was seated in front of the looking-glass, gazing at her image in the mirror, lost in thought. She had been removing the jewelled pins from her hair but had lapsed into this reverie, her coiffure still half completed. Jewel commenced to untangle the last strands and pluck the remaining fastenings from the storm cloud of tresses showering down her daughter’s back. Asrăthiel smiled at her mother’s reflection in the mirror, recalling the numerous times Jewel had performed this loving service for her throughout her childhood.
‘What is ailing you, a mhuirnín?’ Jewel murmured presently, as her fingers combed searchingly through the soft skeins of hair. ‘You seem lost in daydreams these days. Has the North Wind, your new namesake, stolen your peace of mind?’ This was closer to the truth than Asrăthiel dared to admit. Your father and I are worried,’ Jewel went on, ‘because you are not as happy as you used to be. There seems to be a deep melancholy behind your contentment which, I deem, you have been at pains to mask. Perhaps you are deeply troubled by the suffering you witnessed during the wars. Or are you unable to shake off the memories of your ordeal under the mountain? Or both?’
Asrăthiel did not try to dissemble. Jewel knew her as only a parent could. ‘You are right,’ the damsel said with reluctance, ‘I am assailed by some shadow—sorrow, longing, regret, call it what you will. I do not even have a name for it. But Mother, I beg you and Father to refrain from pressing me for the cause, as I feel that to reveal it would be inappropriate, and besides, I’ll warrant that the passage of time will eventually heal the wound and I will be merry again soon enough.’
With tactful understanding Jewel respected her daughter’s wishes and did not pursue her inquiries, but Asrăthiel could tell that her mother suspected she was suffering from a broken heart as a consequence of a tragic love affair. Perhaps her parents conjectured that she had fallen for some lord in King’s Winterbourne or some captain in the Grïmnørsland army, and that a quarrel had severed the union.
Had they learned who was the real focus of her heartbreak, they would, Asrăthiel thought, have been shocked, disbelieving and outraged. She had renamed herself ‘North Wind’ in memory of a lost loved one. Her parents could not know that now she wore the appellation for the sake of another.
She could not stop thinking about Zaravaz, and whenever she found herself alone she dwelled on him exclusively. Would he live or fade? If he faded, could she bear it? If he lived, could she bear it? Would the highs and lows of passion be scorched from him, as had happened to William? Would he be transformed into a silent dreamer like Aonarán? Or would he be no more than an empty, mindless shell—walking and breathing, but with all character burned out of him?
Unanswerable questions were driving her to distraction. Had the Argenkindë already departed from Sølvetårn, bearing their king with them, or did they tarry still, awaiting the outcome of his silent battle with eternity?
The first moon of Averil came and went, but no sign attended it.
Asrăthiel wanted to be certain there was no misunderstanding, as had occurred last time the goblins had linked their plans with the moon’s fickle drift through the heavens; therefore at nights she waited in the kitchen for the household brownie, and when the furtive creature appeared she calmly greeted him, asking him if there was any news from any other eldritch wights concerning the Silver Goblins. The brownie had heard nothing. Every night for weeks, the damsel waited in the dark, and put her enquiry. At last, one night, the brownie told her that he had spoken with some passing trows. The wights stated unequivocally that the Argenkindë had abandoned their fastness and gone forth into the northern wastes. The goblins had gone. There was no mistake.
It was all over.
That night the damsel could not sleep. At dawn some strange birds down on the plateau uttered calls like cries of terrible despair, as if bewailing the horrors inflicted by man upon all other living creatures, heart-rending cries of anguish and despair and piercing sorrow.
Now that all hope was gone it seemed to Asrăthiel that the very light of the sun had paled from yellow-gold to dishwater, and the songs of birds were but a faint and scratchy echo of their old melodies. Days seemed long and dreary; so dreary that it seemed difficult to rise from bed in the mornings. Even the colours of the world had faded; the vibrant greens of Summer foliage had greyed to celadon, the intense white of snow on the highest summits dimmed and lost their lustre; the blue periwinkles in rocky crevices beside the streams were nothing but blotches of corroded ink. It was as if a kind of dirty miasma veiled everything. She told herself, desperately, I must not succumb to this mad misery! I have everything I have ever longed for, now that my parents are both at my side. If I succumb to this despondency I will be failing my family!
The damsel tried to find peace in the beauty of her mountain home, and in the pleasant childhood memories triggered by every tree and pool, every house and face. Sometimes, at the end of a joyful day spent in the company of her family, she would make her way to some high place, where she could watch the sun go down over the western ranges, casting its peach-coloured luminescence across orchards and fields. Far below her feet, the immense wooded plateau stretched for miles, encircled by saw-toothed mountain peaks. The fading light would catch the glimmer of a lake, or a shred of smoke rising from the chimney of a distant cottage.
Other times she might descend the steep cliff path from Rowan Green and walk along the cart tracks of the plateau, through groves of budding walnut and chestnut trees, along leafy lanes and byways that crossed brawling streams.
Her mountain home was beautiful, there was no doubting it, but for all its beauty it could not content her any longer. Her spirit soared beyond the storths, beyond the snowy roofs of Sølvetårn’s silver halls, into infinity, especially when the north wind came wailing its song of ice.
The amazing news of Jewel’s reawakening spread throughout the four kingdoms. It reached the ears of certain men in the employ of the Duke of Bucks Horn Oak: Tsafrir, Yaadosh, Michaiah and Nasim, now more than sixty winters old. Under the command of their lord they had been helping in the fight to defend Narngalis. Now, with his blessing, they travelled to High Darioneth to pay their respects to the Storm Lord’s daughter-in-law, the child of their old friend Jarred. The household of Maelstronnar made these grizzled, honest men most welcome. Mingling with them and listening to their stories of her father set Jewel to pondering about her old home in the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu. She and Arran decided to revisit places in Tir they had known, to reacquaint themselves with people they had loved long ago.
A message arrived from King’s Winterbourne, inviting the weathermasters to a three-day celebration honouring a momentous royal event: Prince William’s betrothal to Lady Meliora Morley, eldest daughter of Lord Carisbrooke. Jewel and Arran arranged to visit the Marsh before proceeding to the royal city.
As soon as the merry men of Bucks Horn Oak had departed from Rowan Green, Asrăthiel and her parents set off in a sky-balloon, following the Mountain Road, across the Canterbury Water and the Border Hills, passing far to the west of Cathair Rua, until they arrived at Jewel’s birthplace. As they travelled, Jewel enthusiastically entertained her husband and daughter with tales of the Marsh they had heard before, but of which they never tired. Particularly, they were fascinated by stories about the secretive eldritch inhabitants of the Marsh; dangerous waterhorses that dwelled in the depths; the miniature damsels called the asrai, clad only in their flowing green hair; the gruagachs of the islets; the will-o’-the-wisps that floated upon the Marsh at night.
The Great Marsh of Slievmordhu had altered little since Jewel’s childhood days. Its rich and widespread complexity of mars
hes, streams, ravelled woods and reed-edged lagoons lay peacefully in that low-lying, lush region, fed by pure rivulets from the surrounding mountains. The Marsh’s waters were as sweet as ever, being constantly refreshed by gentle currents that barely disturbed the surfaces of the mirrored meres, the black tarns, the secret overhung channels, and the tranquil shores of more than three thousand islets.
Marsh Town, too, looked much the same, its reed-thatched houses perched on stilts driven deep beneath the mud, some built on the tiny eyots, others suspended above their own glimmering reflections in the water or floating on rafts. The wooden bridges, boardwalks and network of hidden causeways that connected all buildings were kept in excellent repair, as were the footpaths, duckboard trails, stepping stones and catwalks webbing the entire Marsh system. In open astonishment the Marsh dwellers stared at the newcomers dressed in their flowing raiment of blue-grey linen, until some folk recognised Jewel, whereupon they waved and shouted greetings across the water.
As the visitors voyaged in the boats of the Marsh watchmen, Jewel caught sight of three small children walking across a pond on the buoyant discs of giant lily pads. ‘Just as I used to do!’ she exclaimed. The boat glided beneath overhanging alders and willows, sunlight glimmering through their foliage. Delightedly the Marsh daughter gazed at the familiar proliferation of bulrushes and reeds spearing up from banks of sphagnum moss and sedge. Sticklebacks glided amongst the waterweeds; frogs uttered notes like bells and drums, and dragonflies twinkled as if they were iridescent lights. Birds darted and splashed everywhere; bright kingfishers, grey herons stalking on their long stilts of legs, ducks paddling and diving in the reed beds.
Regaled with stories and entranced by the water world, the travellers reached, at last, the cottage of the white carlin, Cuiva, and her husband Odhrán. Earnán Kingfisher Mosswell was eighty years of age, shrivelled by the weight of years, and ailing. He now lived with Cuiva and Odhrán, who loved him as if he were of their flesh and blood. The old eel-fisher shed tears of joy when he beheld Jewel, his step-granddaughter. Sweet indeed was the reunion, and the weathermasters plied the Marsh folk with gifts. Jewel spent many hours reminiscing with Earnán, sitting on the sunlit staithe in front of the cottage, while water lapped beneath the boards and marvellous dragonflies darted, armoured in polished bronze and gold, their fretted wings a mere shimmer on the air. Fondly the two of them recalled Jewel’s parents, and Earnán’s beloved mother Eolacha, once the carlin of the Marsh.
‘Some would say,’ mused the old man, ‘that life has been unkind to me. After all, I have lost two wives and two children. Unaccountably, I do not feel bitter, but serene now that the worst pangs of grief are past. It is pleasing me more than I can say, to see you and your dear ones so hale and content. Cuiva’s family has become like my own, and in my later years a wonderful peace has enfolded me. It is true that life has been unkind to me, but in many ways it has also been generous.
‘Let me tell you another thing, a mhuirnín,’ the old man said. ‘Long ago a stranger came to the Marsh and, although he looked to be about the same age as me, he resembled your father in many ways. The likeness was quite striking. He said that his name was Jovan and he was the son of a sorcerer, though he was not looking proud of his heritage. He asked after Jarred, claiming to be his father. He had travelled much and seen amazing sights. He told me many valuable secrets, which later I passed on to the venerable Clementer. This Jovan had only a single regret: that he had not visited his wife and son since he left them long ago.
‘So Cuiva and I revealed that Jarred had a child and a grandchild, and we told him also where to find Jarred’s grave. At this, the stranger wept and said he might once have met Jarred, or so he believed, beneath a dilapidated porch in Cathair Rua—had seen and spoken to him, but had not the courage to reveal his identity because he believed his son would despise him for, as it were, running away from the family home. He, the stranger, was mightily proud of Jarred and wished he had made himself known to him then, because now it was too late.
‘In deep sorrow Jovan went alone to the graveside, but when he returned he was smiling and happy and tranquil. By this, Cuiva and I knew he had seen what few people have seen at that burial place, and had found peace within himself. Of us Jovan petitioned that if we should again meet Jarred’s child or grandchild, we would convey to them his message of love and ask, on his behalf, for their forgiveness. He went away and we never saw him again, but later we heard he had gone to a village in the deserts of Ashqalêth, where I suppose he will live out his years and die of old age, just like the sorcerer his father.’
Jewel shed tears when she heard this story, nonetheless she was comforted by the knowledge that her father and grandfather had found each other, after all, even though for such a brief moment.
Muireadach, Cuiva’s brother, and Keelin, her sister, dropped by to pay their respects to Jewel and her family. Cuiva’s sons Oisín and Ochlán and her daughter Ciara also called upon the weathermasters, as did Suibhne Tolpuddle, his sister Doireann, several members of the Alderfen family, and many other folk who had known Jewel in her childhood.
Most poignant of all—and last, before they departed on the return journey to High Darioneth—Jewel, Arran and Asrăthiel paid their own visit to the graves of Lilith and Jarred, which occupied a lonely islet in a lily-strewn lake.
Evening was closing in. Mist was beginning to rise from the surface of the water. The skies were darkening, and herons called to one another as they flew home to roost. The three visitors stepped from their boat. Wavelets lapped at their feet, and frog notes belled from amongst the mosses.
‘Behold,’ Jewel said softly, indicating the pair of blossoming trees that grew atop two long mounds, headed by engraved tombstones, ‘it is exactly as Adiuvo Clementer recorded in his book, The Iron Tree, the story of the lives of my parents.’
‘How did he describe this place?’ Asrăthiel asked, gazing in awe at the trees.
‘I memorised the passage,’ said Jewel, her voice quivering with emotion, ‘for I love it well. He wrote:
‘This is the history of Lilith and Jarred, who found one another and fought against terrible odds. At the last they passed out of life, but not before they gave life to another, for whose sake they sacrificed themselves. Their lives were not yielded up in vain—their cause was successful, and in that their triumph lies. They are gone, now, Lilith and Jarred. Side by side they lie in the ground, and from their mounded graves have sprung two rare trees, the like of which have never been seen in the Four Kingdoms of Tir. The slender boles lean towards one another, intertwining their boughs, and in Springtime the blossom of one tree is the colour of sapphires, and tranquillity, and all things blue, while the flowers of the other are as red as passion. And when in Winter the winds thread through the leafless boughs, a wondrous music is made, like the dim singing of flutes and bells, and the deep sigh of the ocean; and when Autumn unfolds, the trees bear sweet fruit, and it is said that to eat of that fruit is to know joy, and to dwell in happiness forever.’
Mother, father and daughter stood regarding the extraordinary trees for a long moment, while the boughs dipped and nodded, stirred by the faintest of breezes.
‘And it is so!’ said Arran presently. ‘I have never seen such flowers.’
A gust shook the trees, whereupon blue and red petals drifted down to become part of the floral counterpane covering the graves.
‘Who’s that?’ Asrăthiel said suddenly. Her parents stared in the direction of her outflung arm.
The half-light of gloaming might have played tricks upon the eyes, but it seemed to Asrăthiel that a young couple was strolling amongst the willows on the opposite bank of the lily-mere, hand in hand.
Their shapes shimmered through the mist, but they looked to be lovers walking by the water’s edge, for they never took their eyes from one another. One had the appearance of a woman, whose eyes in the twilight glimmered blue, like two wings of the blue Lycaenidae butterfly; the other was evidently a
man, tall and lithe, with hair the colour of cardamom spice. As Asrăthiel watched, holding her breath, unwilling to so much as blink lest the vision be snatched away, she thought the lovers paused. They seemed to turn to look straight towards her and her mother.
Then a light of recognition dawned in their eyes and they smiled, tenderly and joyfully, as if they had come at last to their heart’s desire.
The lake mist swirled up and obliterated the vision, and when it thinned, no sign of the phantasms could be detected.
Jewel stood laughing and weeping simultaneously, while Arran comforted her with embraces, saying, ‘What is it? What have you seen?’
‘I am not sure,’ said Jewel, wiping her eyes, ‘but I am filled with happiness.’
‘I saw them too!’ exclaimed Asrăthiel.
‘You saw them, a mhuirnín? Then it must all be true,’ said Jewel. ‘It must all be true, that our loved ones never leave us.’
‘Of course it is true,’ said Arran gently, and placing one arm about the shoulders of his wife and the other about the shoulders of his daughter, he led them away.
After reluctantly bidding farewell to their friends Asrăthiel and her parents left the Marsh and journeyed straight to King’s Winterbourne for Prince William’s betrothal festivities. The crown prince had chosen a bride, and the populace rejoiced. From Southborough to Northgate, from the grand municipal buildings of the west to the fortified towers and Wyverstone Castle in the east, throughout the port of King’s Winterbourne and all along Winterbourne Bridge, the streets of Narngalis’s royal city were bedecked with bunting in honour of the celebrated couple. The grey basalt of the city provided a sombre backdrop for the colourful flags. After the sorrow and hardship of war the people were doubly glad of a reason to rejoice, and each night there was music and dancing in taverns, assembly rooms and private houses.
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